


Loss of Grace

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Series: Waves on the Shores of Time [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Tragedy, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Depressing, Depression, F/M, Love at First Sight, Prequel, Quickies, Revenge, Sequel, Slut Shaming, Suicidal Thoughts, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 16:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7626145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Maxson is saved from death by a priestess.</p><p>The meeting sets off a chain of events that will echo back in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loss of Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, depression, violence, slut-shaming, suicidal ideation and fantastic racism. AU Arthur/Sparrow lightly smutty one-shot that is the sequel to ‘Lay the Old World to Rest’ and the prequel of ‘Undertow and Overflow’. Some head-canons for post-nuclear Irish culture and Christianity. This is also tragedy. Be warned.

 

Arthur Maxson, Elder of the East Coast Brotherhood of Steel, woke up to his forehead being washed with hubflower-scented water while a warm, sweet female voice murmured vaguely familiar Latin words. When the ornate golden cross swung into view as the woman leaned over, brushing against his bandaged chest, he realised that he was receiving the last prayers of Old Rite Christianity. If the slight lilt to her words was anything to go by, she was an Irishwoman from the clanholds in the north of the Capital Wasteland. Except that his vertibird had been shot down somewhere in the southern Commonwealth on a quick trip back to the Citadel. The soldiers on the Prydwen were probably frantic by now.

            “I’m… not dead,” he rasped into the soft drone of the prayers. “Not yet at least.”

            The priestess paused in her ministrations and leaned over again, chestnut-brown hair with a tinge of Irish red framing a fine-boned face marred by vitiligo and scars. “It’s been touch and go for a few days,” she observed gently. “I don’t know the full last rites of the Brotherhood, so I improvised because no one should die unshriven.”

            “The others?”

            The compassion in her doe-dark eyes said it all.

            Arthur choked back a sob of grief for his loyal troops. Lancer Proud, Knight-Captain Cora and Team Scabbard – all dead because of some asshole with a Fat Man. “Did you shrive them, Priestess?”

            “As much as could be found. The Quincy Gunners did a number on the vertibird, assholes that they are.” Whatever her vows, they certainly didn’t include one against the use of choice language. “I located their holotags. I assume they serve the same purpose to your order as they did to the pre-War army?”

            “Yes.” The Elder tried to sit up, the priestess setting aside her red plastic bowl and dishrag to help him. His gut ached but not abominably so. Maxsons healed fast and judging by the bruise marks, stimpaks had been used to speed his recovery. “Thank you.”

            “No reason to thank me. It’s my duty to lay the dead to rest.” The Irishwoman tilted her head like an inquisitive bird. “Your jacket saved your life.”

            “Battlecoat,” he corrected with a grimace. “When I get back, I can tell Kells my vanity saved my life.”

            “I hope he’s not your chaplain,” she said amusedly.

            “No, he’s the Lancer-Captain of the Prydwen.” Arthur stifled a groan of pain as he looked around the spare shack. He lay on a sleeping bag with a tattered blanket pulled over his legs, battlecoat and salvaged orange uniform folded over the seat of a backless chair. From the left pocket hung a length of steel ball chain: the holotags. Arthur still wore his.

            The priestess sat back on her haunches stiffly. Unlike some of the Old Rite priests in the Capital Wasteland who insisted on elaborate robes to make an Elder’s seem unadorned, her garments were simple and utilitarian – green shirt, denim jeans, combat boots. Leather armour was wrapped strategically around her slender body and a nasty-looking combat shotgun within easy reach.

            “You seem like a very practical priestess,” he finally noted.

            She looked pointedly at the combat shotgun and the sniper rifle Arthur realised lay against the shack’s rusted-iron wall. “My duty is to lay the dead to rest. In the case of feral ghouls, that requires ammunition.”

            “What about sentient ghouls?” The Brotherhood of Steel despised ghouls on principle but in practice, left the sentient ones alone until they turned feral or proved a threat to military interests.

            “Pastor Clements tells me they’re still alive while sentient.” The priestess shrugged eloquently. “We didn’t have those in the pre-War world.”

            It was when she brought up her left hand to brush back some hair that Arthur saw the Pipboy. “Vault Dweller?”

            “Pre-War survivor preserved in a cryo Vault,” she corrected with a sigh. “My ex-husband and I were the only survivors after we thawed out. Our son… not so lucky.”

            “I’m sorry for your loss,” Arthur said automatically while his mind went over the implications of her terse sentences.

            “That’s very kind of you,” she answered. “Now we need to figure out how to get you north. The Gunners targeted your vertibird deliberately.”

            “Obviously because they have a death wish,” the Elder rasped grimly. “I will raze Quincy to the ground for my dead Brothers and Sisters.”

            “There’s a Minuteman outpost nearby,” the Irishwoman observed. “Preston Garvey and his people hold a grudge for the massacre at Quincy.”

            “Vengeance on a mutual enemy? That’s one way to conduct diplomacy.” Arthur wondered if he dared try to stand. “I _have_ been wanting to open communications with them.”

            “I’m sure once you get there, they’ll be able to pass on a message to your people at the Airport,” she agreed. “By the way, my name is Gealbhan. Not my birth name, but-“

            “The one you took on ordination,” Arthur finished. “I have some familiarity with the Old Rite.”

            “In my day, it was called Catholicism and the New Rite was called Protestantism. And didn’t the pair of them hate each other.” Gealbhan grimaced. “A lot of hate between people then.”

            “Things aren’t much better now,” Arthur pointed out, arranging himself into a kneeling position. His gut didn’t hurt any worse.

            “Is the hatred promulgated as a means to control the population and advance the agendas of a corrupt few?” Gealbhan asked.

            “Not in the Capital Wasteland. I assume it’s similar in the Commonwealth.”

            “Perhaps, though McDonough’s agenda in Diamond City is… concerning.” Gealbhan grimaced again. “Let’s see if you can stand, soldier. The Quincy Gunners will be along sooner than I like and they want you badly.”

            She helped him up with a grunt of effort and Arthur staggered, almost driving them both to the ground, before righting himself. “Where are we going?”

            “The Atom Cats garage. They’ve no love of the Gunners and it’s home to the Minutemen’s power-armoured corps.”

            Arthur was half-expecting a clanhold. “Are there no clans around here?”

            “Most of them are scattered into little pockets these days, though Cait tells me the clanholds are more to the south in what was Pennsylvania, Maryland and Virginia,” Gealbhan replied as she reached for another stimpak. “From what I’ve heard, they’re descended from the old pre-War crime clans and moonshiners.”

            Arthur winced as she calmly jabbed him. “I suspect you’re familiar with the pre-War crime clans and moonshiners.”

            Her eyes sparkled amusedly. “Father was a Killian. My mother came from an old Boston Brahmin family – the ancestors of the Upper Stands lot in Diamond City. So I’m rather familiar with criminals from both the lower and upper crust.”

            The rest of the pain vanished and Arthur could feel his flesh knitting together. “An interesting alliance.”

            Her gaze dropped, all amusement fleeing. “One that helped kill a lot of people in the end.”

            He definitely wanted her to at least tell her story to the Scribes. Arthur had a rather startling image of Quinlan orgasming at the thought of a genuine pre-War survivor, one he could have done without.

            He donned the uniform – Knight-Lieutenant Duke’s from the size – and then his battlecoat as Gealbhan quickly packed up her equipment. “My name is Arthur Maxson,” he told her.

            “The Elder?” Gealbhan looked over her shoulder. “No wonder they want you dead so badly. Someone very important and very rich has paid for your death or capture.”

            Arthur could think of a few candidates, beginning the Institute and ending with a couple Elders of questionable loyalty. “Then I will hunt them down and make them regret it.”

            “I hope you’ll give thought to those who might be caught in the crossfire,” she observed with a sigh. “I won’t counsel you against enacting justice, Elder Maxson, but remember vengeance belongs to the Lord.”

            “You’re a priestess. You’re supposed to think like that,” he replied as he pulled on the last of his boots. “I am a leader of soldiers. And I am supposed to take vengeance for their deaths.”

            Gealbhan’s lips thinned but she said nothing. “Let’s go. It’s some ways to the Atom Cats garage.”

…

Maxson had extraordinary healing capabilities that bordered on superhuman, leading Gealbhan to wonder if his ancestors had undergone the same genetic treatments as her ex-husband Nate had. He should have died when that vertibird went down, not lingering on the edge of death for three days before being up and around within an hour of waking up, stimpaks or not.

            His bright blue eyes took in the surrounding terrain as they marched towards the Atom Cats garage. A powerful man, in build, temperament and rank, who was used to achieving his goals. Paladin Danse had spoken of him with almost religious awe when explaining the Brotherhood’s mission to her at Cambridge Police Station.

            “You seem at least moderately familiar with the Brotherhood,” he finally said.

            “I had the privilege of meeting Paladin Danse at the Cambridge Police Station when he and Recon Squad Gladius were under attack from the ghouls there,” she told him. “I couldn’t go with him to Arcjet Systems because of a promise to be elsewhere but I did manage to clear the central part of Cambridge to give them some breathing space.”

            Arthur raised an eyebrow. “He mentioned a Wastelander in his report, not a priestess.”

            Gealbhan smiled wryly. “I wasn’t a priestess then.”

            She’d just been abandoned by Nate at the first major settlement he found, their marriage mutually agreed to be over. Suicidal at her failure as a mother and wife. Unable to cope with this world of rust and ruin.

            The Elder slanted a sideways gaze at her. “What made you become one?”

            “Meeting Pastor Clements in Diamond City,” she sighed. “He’s New Rite, as you’d call it, but he talked me out of a pretty dark place. Ordination is ridiculously easy these days, by the way.”

            Arthur’s mouth quirked to the side. “The Steel Rite is a little more stringent. You have to be a Brotherhood soldier in good standing for at least a decade, preferably a Scribe or retired Knight, and you need to know the Litany sideways, backwards, frontwards and upside down to answer any questions on our doctrine. And even then, the Elder can overrule you if they feel it’s too daring.”

            “Sounds like fun,” she observed dryly.

            “The training is tedious. Every Elder has to go through at least a portion of it as we are the final arbiters of doctrine.” Arthur grimaced. “Being a Maxson puts an extra level of meaning on my decisions.”

            She studied him sidelong. “You’re very young for an Elder. How old were you when you became one?”

            “Sixteen. And there was no one else. One more disaster of an Elder and the Capital Wasteland Brotherhood would have fallen apart.”

            “A heavy burden. No wonder you look like you’ve been through a few wars.” She heard a familiar growling noise and reached for her Molotov cocktail and flip lighter. “Ferals at one o’ clock.”

            The bottle of cheap moonshine smashed between the two shambling monsters of indeterminate sex, setting them aflame, before Maxson calmly turned their heads into red ruin with the shotgun she’d given him as a weapon. Gealbhan sighed, put her lighter away, and reached into her pack for the holy water. Time to lay these poor souls to rest.

            The last rites were achingly familiar to her by now, words worn by frequent usage, and when it was done she scattered dirt over them in a ritual burial. It would have been better to burn or bury them properly but with Gunners after Arthur, she couldn’t take the time.

            “Why did you take a vow of laying the dead to rest?” the Elder asked when she was finished.

            “Because my mother ordered the deaths of dozens and my father and later husband carried out those orders, all in the name of a dying government,” Gealbhan told him as she dusted off her hands. “I could do little then because, at least, my own family would have put a bullet in my head. At worst, I might have become a victim of a terrible experiment.”

            He regarded her queerly. “You’re burying the people your parents killed?”

            “I don’t know.” She smiled at him sadly. “But I’m burying the dead of the old world whenever I kill a feral ghoul.”

            “At least your religious vows are practical ones,” he noted. “There are some strange cults out there.”

            “Like the Children of Atom? We’ve clashed a time or two because their holy places are often filled with feral ghouls if they haven’t cleared it out.” Gealbhan grimaced. “Atoms are _not_ infinite worlds through division. They are miniscule pieces of a greater whole.”

            Arthur snorted. “I know that, you know and the sentient ghoul down the road probably does. But the Children won’t listen to you and risk the lives of others with their obsession with nuclear devices.”

            “They’re welcome to worship nuclear warheads as much as they please. I’d just rather they didn’t unleash a second Armageddon to share the holy radiation with the rest of us,” she agreed.

            They walked in silence for a while, the Atom Cats garage nearby. She just hoped the Gunners weren’t tracking her. It was strange to be walking alongside a man of the kind she might have happily fucked in college as a cleric. Celibacy wasn’t one of her vows but the young woman who would have cheerfully jumped Arthur’s bones died years before the bombs fell.

            “I am mindful of the debt I owe you,” Arthur finally said. “When we return to the Prydwen, I’ll see you get one of our better weapons.”

            “My guns and grenades work well enough,” she replied. “There is no debt owed.”

            “I feel there is, Priestess. Twice over – once for Danse, who is my friend, and myself.” The Elder’s tone was adamant.

            “We’ll discuss it later. Let’s hope we reach the Atom Cats before the Gunners catch you.”

            Fortunately, they did, the smiling face of Rowdy in her power armour greeting them at the gate. “Hey Gilly,” she said cheerfully, given her post-apocalyptic name the western crime clan pronunciation. “Good to see you.”

            “And you, Rowdy.” Gealbhan nodded to the Atom Cat. “Is Zeke around? We have a situation that requires the Minutemen’s attention.”

            “Wow, you’re in luck. Preston’s here too.” Rowdy nodded towards the clubhouse.

            “T-51b?” Arthur asked with professional interest, eyeing the woman’s garishly painted power armour.

            “Uh huh. Zeke found a few and we soup them up.” Rowdy grinned at him. “You know your power armour.”

            “I’m Brotherhood of Steel. If I didn’t know a T-45 from a T-60, they’d have thrown me out years ago,” he answered wryly.

            “Mmm. T-60s are good if you’re going to be flying around in vertibirds. T-45s don’t have the heft to stay on board, T-51s are too rare, and X-01s would drop the ‘bird like a rock.” Rowdy nodded approvingly at Arthur. “If you’re going to stick around, might show you a thing or two about mods, soldier.”

            “Ah, thank you, but I fear I won’t be able to stay.” Arthur grimaced. “The Gunners in Quincy killed the rest of my team.”

            Rowdy’s eyes narrowed. “Those sons of bitches.”

            “I have harsher names for them,” Arthur said flatly. “Be on the lookout. They may be tracking us.”

            “Duke!” Rowdy’s urgent yell brought the other gate guard running. “Set up the turrets and then getcha ass over to Warwick and bring the settlers here. The Gunners have decided to start a fucking war.”

            “Got it,” the young man agreed. “Good thing Preston’s got a squad here.”

            “Yeah. The Gunners owe the Minutemen for Quincy.” Rowdy’s smile was feral. “And those assholes keep on trying to take our power armour.”

            Duke nodded and went about his appointed task. Gealbhan led Arthur to the clubhouse where Preston Garvey, Zeke and a few Minutemen were boiling out, laser muskets to hand.

            “We have a situation,” she told the General of the Minutemen. “Gunners in Quincy decided to shoot a Brotherhood vertibird down. This is the only survivor.”

            “I know. We got the report three days and the Brotherhood wants blood,” Preston said grimly, looking at Arthur. “Elder Maxson, I assume?”

            “Yes,” he replied, stepping forward to offer his hand. “I’m assuming by the stars you’re General Garvey.”

            “I am.” They shook hands. “Paladin Danse is leading Recon Squad Gladius down here.”

            “Good. We lost Team Scabbard and I take that sort of thing personally.”

            Preston nodded approvingly. “Good. Not sure what to make of your Brotherhood, but I’m willing to give you a chance.”

            “Feeling’s mutual.” Arthur looked at Gealbhan. “Priestess, it should be safe for you to head north. This isn’t your fight.”

            “I buried your dead, Arthur Maxson,” she responded softly. “I saved your life. The Gunners will hunt me for cheating them of their rightful prey.”

            “We’ve got a stock of shotgun shells,” Preston said softly. “I’d prefer you stay in the back with the civilians though. People will need last rites before this is over.”

            Arthur’s smile was unnerving. “Except the Gunners. By the time I am done with them, there won’t be enough to pray over.”

…

Gealbhan regarded him with an eloquent look of disgust before heading towards the clubhouse. Arthur watched her leave for a moment before looking back at Garvey. “Can I radio Danse? I need him thinking, not planning some death-and-vengeance mission.”

            The umber-skinned Minuteman inclined his head. “Be my guest.”

            They entered the clubhouse and Arthur set the radio to the Brotherhood frequency. “Gladius, this is MX-001E. Do you copy?”

            “This is DN-407P,” Danse responded over the channel. “Status report?”

            “Scabbard is dead. I am with the Minutemen at the location I believe you’re already headed to.”

            “Good. It was thought you were lost.”

            “I nearly was, no thanks to our charming friends in green. I will see you soon. MX-001E out.”

            Knowing that Danse was on his way eased some of the tension in his shoulders. There was no battle that couldn’t be lost with the Paladin at his side.

            “Alright, we need to decide how we’re going to handle the Gunners,” Garvey said crisply. “Assault Quincy or lure them out.”

            Gealbhan, who was helping one of the Atom Cats organise medical supplies, looked up with wise dark eyes. “They’ll come here. Elder Maxson _and_ power armour _and_ a chance to wipe out the Minutemen’s leader? The temptation will be too great to resist.”

            “Yeah. The Gunners’ new commander is trying to make a name for himself.” Preston grimaced distastefully. “Zeke, I’m sorry we’ve brought this on you.”

            “Gunners would’ve come anyway,” the dark-haired greaser in black leather observed grimly. “Maybe we can avenge the Minutemen and Quincy.”

            “Before you ask, the Atom Cats are fairly isolated in comparison to Quincy, so by the time they knew something was wrong it was too late,” Preston told Arthur. “They can protect Warwick Farmstead well enough but Quincy was a bit out of their zone.”

            He nodded in understanding. “Without proper military training, they were wise not to engage. I ask permission for me and Danse to coordinate the power-armoured corps – no offence, Zeke, but the Brotherhood knows how to wage war in suits. We’ve been doing it since the bombs fell.”

            “Hey, if a Cat comes along and knows his business, I’ll listen to him because I’m not a stupid kitten,” the greaser replied. “We got a spare set if you want to jump in.”

            Arthur grinned. “Do you have a mini-gun?”

            Zeke nodded. “We do.”

            “Ammo?”

            “Of course.”

            Arthur allowed himself a positively savage smile. “Good. I usually fight with a laser Gatling gun but train with a mini-gun.”

            “I know you want payback, Maxson,” Preston cautioned. “I do too. But don’t let it get to your head.”

            If it had been anyone other than someone he probably had to treat like an equal for diplomacy’s sake, Arthur’s response would have been short, pithy and obscene. But Garvey was a commander in his own and the Elder had no wish to act like a boor around Gealbhan. Not when he owed her his life.

            So he chose to not dignify Preston’s comment with a reply but instead get the power armour and mini-gun ready.

            A half-hour later, Danse and Recon Squad Gladius arrived. Arthur strode forward and embraced his battle-brother, allowing himself a moment to grieve for the soldiers who died in the vertibird crash. Danse wrapped a comforting arm around him, sharing the pain and loss, before they became Paladin and Elder once more.

            “Let Preston command his Minutemen,” Danse advised in a low voice. “They’re mostly snipers and damn good at it. The problem with Quincy is that they didn’t have power armour to match the Gunners and Clint, a former Minuteman, told the mercenaries about the highways that go over the town’s defences.”

            Arthur nodded. “How can we order the defences here?”

            “Maybe the Atom Cats have some ideas, it is their territory.”

            It seemed that Rowdy, the sole female power-armoured fighter, and Gealbhan herself were already assembling mines. The priestess was as deft in putting together frag mines as she was with a stimpak. A very practical woman indeed.

            “I think the Chuilt pattern will work best,” she was saying to a thin young woman and an older man in Atom Cats jackets. “Arrange the mines in diamond formation with the ‘lines’ forming the pattern of the ‘quilt’.”

            “Yes, ma’am.” The man nodded and accepted a handful of frag mines.

            “If we line the entrances with frag mines, that’ll let the Minutemen snipers focus on headshots,” Preston agreed. “The power-armoured troops will be our second line of defence.”

            “Here’s to hoping they don’t get the bright idea to bomb the place with missiles and mini nukes,” Danse said grimly.

            “No. That would destroy the power armour,” Arthur observed. “I’m hoping we can take an officer alive. I want answers as to who hired them to shoot me down.”

            Danse slammed one armoured fist into the palm of his other hand. “It would be my pleasure, Elder.”

            Duke returned with the settlers from Warwick Homestead just before the mines were primed. By then, Zeke, Arthur, Danse, Preston and even Gealbhan had come up with a workable battle-plan.

            “Eat, drink and relieve yourselves before getting into position, people!” Preston ordered. “The enemy won’t let you take a toilet break in the middle of battle.”

            “Very inconsiderate of them, I think,” Gealbhan observed dryly as she handed out strips of mirelurk jerky and cups of water.

            Arthur couldn’t help but grin at the priestess.

            The hours stretched out until it was dusk, when visibility was compromised and the Wastelanders most likely to be settling in for the night. Then the sound of boots on dirt reached them and a Molotov cocktail hurled at the roof of the Atom Cats’ garage. Preston Garvey, in an amazing display of gunmanship, shot it in mid-air and rendered the fire useless.

            The Gunners’ commander was a smart bastard -  the first wave was made up of foot soldiers who moved with the poor coordination of new recruits. Literally cannon fodder – or mine fodder, in this case. Rowdy, armed with a missile launcher, scattered the wave by firing a missile at the knot before they reached the mines. Knight Rhys did the same with a Fat Man at the other entrance.

            “Jesus, I didn’t know the Minutemen had that kind of fucking firepower!” yelled a Gunner to the rear of the garage.

            “They don’t. They’ve made an alliance with the Brotherhood.” The answer was delivered in a clipped, commanding tone. “Keep your shit together and remember – keep Maxson alive and relatively intact.”

            “Shit.” Gealbhan’s curse was soft and fervent. “That’s Nate. God- _fucking_ -dammit!”

            Preston said something angry in Irish. “This is gonna be ugly.”

            “Who’s Nate?” Danse asked in a low urgent voice.

            Gealbhan’s dark eyes were grim. “My ex-husband. And a man trained in the pre-War style of warfare, especially the dirty kind. Shit, he’d disappeared and I thought… Doesn’t matter. He’ll use feints in feints, treat the recruits like cannon fodder, and possibly try to get in himself through subterfuge. Don’t trust _anything_ he says.”

            Arthur had _another_ reason to kill the bastard. “Rowdy, Rhys, give these mongrel dogs an appropriate welcome.”

            A missile and a mini nuke sailed in the direction of the voices and exploded, producing a chorus of ragged screams.

            “This is Preston Garvey of the Commonwealth Minutemen,” announced the General sternly. “You can go and take your scum with you. Or we can kill you and make this part of the Commonwealth safer.”

            “Unlike my predecessors, Garvey, I have no quarrel with the Minutemen,” Nate called out. “Hand over the Brotherhood soldiers and your people will be free to go. Hell, we’ll leave the Atom Cats alone too.”

            “Pull the other leg, it plays ‘Jingle Bells’,” countered Garvey. “The Brotherhood’s done no wrong to us, whereas you’ve done a great deal of harm to the Commonwealth.”

            Nate’s chuckle was dark. “The area’s surrounded and you’re trapped, Garvey. You’ve got… what? Thirty people in there? How much supplies do you have?”

            “Enough to deal with the likes of you,” Danse spat.

            Nate snorted. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Paladin. Gunners, make yourselves comfortable! We’re going to be besieging these assholes until they hand over the Brotherhood.”

            “Shit,” Gealbhan breathed again. _“Shit.”_

            Arthur looked at her consolingly. “We’ll be fine, priestess. I promise.”

            Her eyes were eloquent with worry but she nodded. Now there was fear in the lines of her body.

            Whatever Nate was, a priestess who killed feral ghouls feared him. And that was enough to worry Arthur as well.

…

They had an endless supply of fresh water and supplies for a three-day siege at full rations. Arthur immediately instituted a half-ration to buy them time as they’d be mostly sitting around and waiting for Nate’s next action.

            Gealbhan’s sleep was uneasy and at dawn, the second wave of recruits were sent. They hit the first row of mines and died screaming before Rowdy and Rhys scrambled into position. In the roseate light, the Gunners were a low khaki line on the horizon.

            The attacks were irregular and in between them, she filled the commanders on what she knew about Nate and how he made war. That led into revelations about her missing son, the… complicated… relationship she’d had with her husband, her belief that Shaun had died because _of course_ anyone taken by the Institute only came back as a synthetic copy…

            Each word falling from her lips made Maxson’s blue eyes go colder. Each attack made him angrier. Each hour weakened the resolve of the civilians.

            Dusk came and went as the Minutemen and Brotherhood changed shifts. Danse and Abernathy were on night command, so Arthur, Preston and her ate a lean meal of jerky and tato mash before taking up the sleeping bags in the corner of the main garage.

            “Priestess-“ Arthur’s rasp was velvet on stone in the gathering darkness. “Why do you fear him?”

            “Because I know precisely what Nate did to the enemies of America during the Great War,” she replied softly. “And that was with a hand on his leash. Now…”

            She didn’t want to find out what he’d do to her for aiding his enemies, even unknowingly.

            “If the worst happens, he won’t take you alive,” Arthur promised. “I know suicide is a sin in the Old Rite but I have a backup weapon…”

            “Thank you,” Gealbhan sighed. “Now sleep. Tomorrow will be a hard day.”

            And it was. Minutemen and Brotherhood soldiers died after Nate’s second offer to hand over Maxson was soundly rejected by Preston. Laws of hospitality were in force, laws Nate never cared about when he was in the crime clans.

            By the afternoon of the second day, Danse and Arthur had figured out that the rear was guarded by Clint, the weaker commander of the two. If the Lieutenant fell, then the force would likely break and if they scattered, Nate’s group could be flanked.

            At dawn, it was Preston’s turn to use several choice words in Irish, the lingua franca of the southern Commonwealth, that described Clint in no uncertain terms. When the Lieutenant ventured closer, almost to the edge of the mines, to retort in kind – Gealbhan hit him in the head with a sniper’s bullet as MacCready had taught her before she took vows as a priestess.

            As predicted, the rear force broke – but it rushed the back gate, breaking through the mines with horrendous casualties until repelled by one of Rowdy’s precious missiles. They fell back much less than before but still enough to hamper any group that sallied forth.

            “Nate’s made them as disciplined as the Brotherhood,” Preston said grimly. “This is not good.”

            An hour after that, Roger Warwick suggested that they hand over the Brotherhood soldiers. “We don’t owe them anything!” the farmer said grimly. “And I’ve heard they conquered the Capital Wasteland and rule like kings.”

            “We’re not here to conquer,” Arthur rasped. “We’re here to eliminate the Institute.”

            “Says you.”

            Abernathy, a farmer himself, looked grimly at Recon Squad Gladius. It would be the citizen soldiers of the Minutemen who would break first in a siege.

            Gealbhan stepped forward, looking them in the eye. “The Gunners harried the survivors of Quincy through the Commonwealth after an unprovoked attack,” she reminded the farmers and settlers. “Nate has no mercy. If he keeps you alive, it will be because you’re useful. But he _will_ grind the settlements under his boot, as you fear the Brotherhood will do, if he wins.”

            “How do you know him so well?” Blake Abernathy challenged.

            “Because he left me at your farm,” she countered. “Remember the words he said to me?”

            “Jesus – I didn’t recognise you.” Now the Minutemen’s second-in-command looked ashamed. “But priestess, we’re trapped.”

            “We have supplies for three more days,” Preston said firmly. “I’ve seen what the Gunners can do. This is part of protecting our neighbours.”

            “But the Brotherhood _aren’t_ our neighbours,” Roger argued. “What about the crops they give only to the settlements that swear allegiance to them?”

            “You’re talking about handing us over. Why should we trust the likes of you?” Rhys retorted.

            “Nobody’s handing anybody over,” Preston said grimly. “I don’t trust the Gunners as far as we can throw them.”

            The day wore on but no more attacks came. Gealbhan knew Nate wouldn’t give up. Not when he needed Maxson alive.

            That night, she ate only half her food, giving the rest to Janey Warwick. She drank a lot of water and tried to get some sleep, but found herself joining an insomniac Arthur just outside.

            “If I thought my soldiers could break through, I’d take Recon Squad Gladius and punch through the Gunners’ rear guard,” he murmured.

            “And you’d never make it,” she pointed out.

            “I know,” he sighed. “Any ideas?”

            She took a deep breath. “I might see how he’ll react if he knows I’m here.”

            “No.” Arthur’s voice was grim. “He would kill you.”

            “He’ll kill us anyway,” she countered. “Maybe I can parley with him or at least find out who wants you.”

            “No,” he repeated. “I won’t send you out to die.”

            “Then I hope you have a better idea,” she said tersely. “Because tomorrow will either see us dead or you handed over to Nate and the rest of us killed.”

            His eyes gleamed in the strange light of the rad-veiled sky. “Suicide isn’t a sin in the Steel Rite, priestess. I will not go into your ex-husband’s hands.”

            “Why do you care so much about me anyways?” Gealbhan stared up into those eyes.

            “Because I owe you my life. Because you are a rare and precious thing in this Wasteland.” His mouth inched closer with every word. “Because-“

            She silenced him with a kiss. Nate would probably kill her no matter what, so she figured she’d break the centuries-long drought.

            Maxson pushed her against the garage wall, broad frame covering hers like a bulwark. His mouth pulled away from hers and travelled down to her neck, learning the lay of her body by tracking the sound of her moans.

            That there were people who could likely hear her meant nothing. Arthur’s hands slid under her shirt, leaving fire and need in their wake, and when he wedged his thigh between her legs she sighed in approval. God but she was wet as the Charles River.

            His uniform had many different catches but he guided her to the most important, a semi-erect cock springing free from the flap and hardened quickly in her hand.

            “Beautiful,” he muttered against her skin. “Your husband was a fool.”

            Her jeans were tugged down and she stepped out of them, having been barefoot for sleep, and his fingers parted her folds. “Wet for me. Steel but it’s been so long. My Vault Dweller priestess-“

            Gealbhan came to orgasm embarrassingly quickly, stifling her cries too slowly. Looked like the Gunners would know someone was having sex. God, she hoped none of them had a night scope.

            Arthur sheathed himself on the heels of her climax, hips snapping with the powerful thrusts of a man long-denied. It was over quickly, his seed pouring into her, and her fingers brought her to another orgasm as his head rested against hers.

            “Gealbhan,” he breathed, her name like a prayer. And for a moment, she believed that he cherished her.

…

Arthur slept with Gealbhan in his arms that night and in the thin grey light of predawn, he took her again. If Brotherhood protocol was running according to plan, a team of three vertibirds would be investigating Danse’s missing squad, all of them armed to the teeth. If he calculated it precisely, they should arrive by mid-morning.

            He would come from this as would his priestess. Pre-war, pure genetics – she was meant to be his. Together they could put the Old World to rest and build a new one. He was a Maxson, it would be so.

            As the sun climbed above the sea and turned the sky red-gold with the promise of a storm, he leaned over to kiss her once more before entering his power armour.

            The whine of a bullet shattered the silence of the morning as they parted and Gealbhan’s fine-boned features disintegrated.

            “Sniper!” yelled Preston Garvey in the background as Arthur caught the body of the Old Rite priestess. There was nothing remaining of her head beyond a half-shattered skull and her brains were on his face and chest.

            A terrible rage, cold and fierce, took over Arthur’s mind as his heart broke. Gealbhan had saved him, tended to him, loved him – and died for it.

            The Gunners would learn the hard way what it meant to anger the Brotherhood of Steel.

            “Danse,” he said icily. “Armour up. We’re taking those bastards out.”

            “Yes, Elder Maxson.” The Paladin sounded shaken. “God, of all people _Gealbhan_ -“

            “Maxson, what the hell are you doing?” Preston demanded. “If you go out there-“

            “I will do what the Minutemen should have done,” he rasped at the ashen-faced General. “I will annihilate the Gunners and grind their ashes into the dust.”

            Whatever Garvey saw in his face, the Minuteman flinched and looked away from it.

            The Brotherhood soldiers exited the Atom Cats garage by the back entrance and took the Gunners’ rear guard by surprise. Between the mini-gun and Righteous Authority, it wasn’t much of a battle, and they pushed on ahead to hit the vanguard from the side.

            Garvey got his shit together and began pummelling the front force with musket fire. If he’d had a proper night watch out, they would have spotted the sniper and saved Gealbhan. Arthur was already assigning blame appropriately.

            He would avenge Gealbhan even if he had to drown the Commonwealth in the blood of the guilty. She’d been meant to be his and someone took her from him. That someone would die slowly.

            They struck the vanguard like a broadsword entering a warrior’s side. It caved in around them and the press of Gunner bodies stopped the mercenaries from fighting effectively. They should have thought to do this earlier but Arthur had been too concerned about civilians, the ungrateful lot of them. Now all that mattered was vengeance and the Brotherhood’s mission.

            It had to have been the Institute who hired the Gunners. Who else would want him alive and relatively intact?

            Sooner than he expected, he had cornered Nate, the sniper rifle still in his hands. He’d killed Rhys with that weapon. He was tall and rangy, a handsome man with dark hair and green-hazel eyes.

            “You’re a lucky bastard, Maxson,” the pre-War mercenary said coolly.

            “You just killed your ex-wife,” Arthur retorted. “And I am going to disassemble you with my bare hands for it.”

            “That was _Sparrow_?” Then he casually shrugged. “She always was a stupid slut.”

            Arthur’s rage turned hot and his world dissolved into the need for violence and blood.

            When he was done, Nate was no longer so pretty, his face a red ruin as Gealbhan’s had been. The sound of vertibirds told him his soldiers, the only people he could count on, had arrived.

            “Mo Dhia,” Preston breathed as he ran up. “Maxson-“

            “I will _end_ the Institute for this,” Arthur interrupted, fixing him with a gimlet stare. “I will rain nuclear fire on them and salt the ashes.”

            “And what about the rest of the Commonwealth, huh?” Preston didn’t know when to shut up and leave.

            “Fuck the Commonwealth.” Arthur turned away from the incompetent Minuteman. “Brotherhood, make certain of this scum.”

            Every least little trace of the Institute and their supporters would be uprooted and destroyed. He would avenge Gealbhan, the woman he knew was his soulmate, or the world would burn in his doing so.


End file.
